


A Dog's Life - Omake

by Everlind



Series: A Dog's Life [2]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Hyotei - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason Shishido hates Atobe's parties. And it doesn't help that everybody keeps waiting for him to bark or wag a tail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dog's Life - Omake

**A Dog's Life - Omake**

It's so strange being home. 

Home at his parents that is.

After that odd, surreal night six days ago, Christmas day, the day he was human again and the day he and Choutarou resolved things and, yeah okay, fucked each other senseless, Shishido tries to cope with life again. Not that it's bad or anything, far from, but he's spent just short of a week at his parental home and it's so _weird_. 

Above all else, Mochi, old and creaking with age, tries to impart dogly wisdom on him at the most inopportune moments. He tries to ignore it. Mochi is a dog and Shishido is a man, and he's not going to pay any attention to what she's saying. Even though at times, it makes eerily a lot of sense. Still, _no_. Man now, so no more... no. Just a big fat no. He can deal, really. 

Stupid dog.

His aniki left two days ago, taking his family with him, and now Shishido is alone with just his mother and his father. It's awkward. It's nice, too. Never before have they gone so out of their way to make sure he knows they love him, smearing it on finger-thick so bad it makes him feel even worse. 

They still don't understand why he didn't let them know. Probably never will. Shishido doesn't know it himself, so he can live with it. 

Especially since his mother looks better and better every single day, blooming into her previous beauty again as she slowly accepts that he's back for good. With each brilliant smile of hers the knot of guilt eases a bit, but Shishido thinks it might never really untangle.

"Ryou," he looks up from the bag he's packing. "Do you need some help?" she asks. Walking further into his old room, she puts a tray on the night-stand and seats herself on the bed. She's spent the past two days salvaging what she could after Sho's kids turned it into a disaster-zone. Shishido was partly responsible, as well, since he was shacked up with them. Were those two ever shrill. 

"I'm done, okaa-san," he tells her, stuffing some extra clothes into it. They had taken him shopping for new ones a few days ago, a year of collecting dust had left his old wardrobe far from appealing. 

Handing him a cup, she draws him down next to her onto the bed. Shishido allows it and doesn't even balk when she drops a head on his shoulder. "Thank you, for staying here so long. You must be anxious to..." she doesn't finish the sentence, but her full lips can't repress a sudden smile.

Shishido frowns at her. "Anxious to what?" he presses.

"Se-cret," she sing-songs, giggling behind her fingers.

"Huh?" Shishido scowls, "What? Tell me! Okaa-san!"

He rolls his eyes as his mother giggles some more, high and tinkling, but he sorta smiles too. She's such a _girl_ at times. 

"I can't get over how much you two look like each other,"

Shishido jumps. His mother smiles, warm and slow and lifts her head from his shoulder. His father is grinning at them from where he's leaning against the doorframe. Yeah, they've been sappy and corny like that the whole damn week.

"Che," he grumbles, "I don't look like a _girl_ , jeez."

"Like your _mother._ Not a girl," his father stresses.

Crossing his arms Shishido frowns and points out, "And okaa-san is a girl."

"Never mind, Ryou," his mother says, patting his hand. "Finish your packing. Your... friend will be here any moment now." 

Shishido doesn't like the mystic all-knowing-female smile she's giving him. The pointed pause just now, even less. There's so way... nah. No way she knows. Impossible.

The bag weighs a ton as he drags it down the stairs with a loud _thud thud thud_ on each step. 

"Be careful, Ryou, you're damaging the woodwork!" his father chastises him loudly from where he's doing some paper-work. 

No matter how old he is, his parents always make him feel like a little snot-nosed kid again.

"Sure you don't want to spend New Year's eve with us?" his mother asks, giving him an almost coy glance and making the 'sure' heavy with innuendo. 

What's up with her? 

"Aa, no," he mutters, "I promised Atobe... I owe him for hushing up the whole werewolf rumor that's going around. Not that I really want to go, but, yeah." He shrugs. He doesn't really want to go to yet another event planned by his former buchou and spend an evening wasting his time around people way above his social ranking. There's better things he could be doing. Much better things. 

He grins to himself. And grins even fiercer when a car honks outside. 

And then... then his mother smiles at him from over her shoulder, all sweet and innocent as she says, "Your boyfriend is here."

Aghast, he gapes at her, jaw dangling.

"Have fun," she adds and pushes him out of the kitchen.

Dazed, he sticks his feet hastily into a new pair of shoes and hoists his bag up on his shoulder. He's heard wrong. No way. His mother waves at him from the door, curling her fingers daintily as though she's royalty. And smirking. His sweet, beautiful and pure mother is _smirking_.

Dumping his bag in the trunk, he dashes towards the passenger-seat and yanks the door open, all but diving in. 

Choutarou swallows a greeting, "Wha-"

"GO! Just go!" he manages. Don't look, don't make eye-contact. Girls are evil and have cooties and he may be twenty-five but that's never gonna change. 

***

Never before has the smell of grip-tape been so wonderful. Never before has the feel of the racket in his hand made his blood sing through his veins. Never before has the weight of, the sight of it, brought about such sharp euphoria. 

And never before has the sound of a Scud serve slamming low and deep into his court been so infuriating. 

Choutarou grins at him from over the net, "Ah, I'm sorry Shishido-san. Too fast for you?"

 _Why, that insolent little twerp!_

The next one is even faster. I still awes Shishido. With that damned serve of his, Choutarou could have gone pro, he thinks. A good coach and... but that's not the point. The point is returning it. He was the only one who could return it (okay, sure not all time, but he _could_ ) while they were in school. There's no way he's allowing that to change.

Another one shoots over the net, planting itself smugly in a corner.

"Oops, sorry," Choutarou says, "still too fast."

Shishido glowers. It feels strange to play without a cap on. The chill wind ruffles through his short hair. By rights it's too cold and slick to play tennis now, especially on such a derelict court. But he had to. It had been a whole year. It's just a bit past noon, they have until nine to be at Atobe's little (or not so) gala.

Planting his feet and swaying a from side to side he lets himself feel tennis, his focus drawing tighter and tighter until nothing else matters than hitting that yellow ball. This time he gets Choutarou's serve with the tip of his racket, but it goes wide, disappearing into some bushes.

"So close," Choutarou says with a sweet smile and adds, "don't twist your wrist... Ryou."

"I'm gonna make you eat those words, Ohtori," he growls.

"Uh-huh," he agrees blandly as he walks back to the base-line. 

Naïve, innocent and sweet my ass, Shishido thinks. 

As he misses them, his body starts to recognize tennis again. _Yeah_. That's how it's supposed to feel. He's fourteen again and Seigaku's Golden Pair dance through their game on the other side. That match is etched in his mind's-eye for eternity, not because they won, which was an empty victory for him, but just the savage pleasure of playing against such a strong opponent. That's how it feels to play Choutarou now. This style he knows through and through, and even as he fumbles at first, seeing Choutarou move like that makes his own body remember. 

Fuck yeah. This is it.

"Ik- kyu-" Choutarou is one taut arch, all contained power, "nyu-

"KON!"

Shishido, the muscles in his calves and thighs straining, dashes.

"Fifteen-forty," he calls, smug as Choutarou blinks in surprise as the balls rolls to a stop in his court. 

After that, he stops counting, really. It's a game between friends, pure for fun. Winning is nice and all, sure, but mid-game Choutarou presses a water bottle in his hand, perfectly normal. If it weren't for those fingers lingering a heartbeat too long against his and that look in those brown eyes.

Naïve, innocent and sweet my ass, Shishido growls inwardly again. 

Nevertheless, counting the score seems almost trivial after that. 

They play until both of them are dripping with sweat despite the fact that it's even started to snow again. Beneath his sneakers the court is one slick ice-rink of trodden down snow, ground into the asphalt by his dashing around. Choutarou reaches to collect a ball, slips, arms milling, and is hanging in the net a second later. 

"Elegant," Shishido remarks and hauls him to his feet again. "It's those long legs of yours. Bambi on ice and all that."

"What does that make you, then?" Choutarou wonders, tapping an index finger against his lips, "Oh, I know, what about-"

"Don't say it, Ohtori. Or I'll have you eat your racket, too." There's way too many Disney films with dogs in it. Like Lady and the Tramp. 

And just like that the mood shifts and changes when Choutarou abruptly reaches out, fingers brushing his throat. There's no way that he'll ever get used to being touched by Choutarou like that, at least not without all the blood rushing south and his breathing hitching. _I'm such a loser_ , he thinks, but doesn't really mind much anymore.

"It's blue and green now," Choutarou says, frowning at the bruise.

"Not my color?" He asks playfully, arching a brow. 

Choutarou just keeps staring, not at the bruise anymore, but lower, where his fingers trail over his collar-bone. His eyes are darker, fiercer than even during the game. Shishido's can hear his voice drop, low and shaking as he breathes, "Choutarou..."

"Hmm?"

Quickly, he glances around. The courts are deserted, they're alone in the snow on the last day of the year. Taking a steadying breath he steps closer and reaches up to draw Choutarou in for an open-mouthed kiss. Shishido is tip-toeing, it's the only way with Choutarou being so damn tall. It's not that he's small, no, his height is perfectly respectable, not too tall, but certainly not too short. Even so Choutarou basically looms over him and everybody else, Kabaji included, though he has only a two-fingers' difference on the latter. 

Choutarou's nose is cold, but his lips are deliciously warm. 

It just escalates from there. They all but race home and Shishido can't stop laughing, feeling like a dumb teenager with a first crush. He's so embarrassed with himself, but he's so terribly uncool and giddy that he can't stop. 

Not even making it to the bedroom, Shishido is shoved up against the front door as soon as it bangs shut. His hip makes a half-hearted protest, but he's is beyond caring, not when Choutarou curls his hands under the back of his thighs as soon as he's naked and _lifts_ , shoulders moving powerfully where Shishido is clutching them. They do it against the door, just like that.

And in the shower, again, afterwards.

And a third time when Shishido tries to change into something half-respectable for the feast.

***

The smooth roll of the car does nothing to alleviate his discomfort. Choutarou takes a speed bump too fast and Shishido winces, "Goddamnit, Choutarou," he says and glares meaningfully.

"Sorry, Shishido-san," Choutarou answers, not looking sorry in the least.

As soon as he can flex his own hips without his eyes rolling back in pain, Shishido vows silently to himself, it's payback-time. 

For now he has to move slowly and deliberately, trying to not let the mince in his step show as they walk into Atobe's humble abode (imagine heavy quotation marks on humble). The place is packed with people, but not as many snobs as usual. As a matter of fact, there's a whole lot of people who look terribly familiar. 

"Is it just me or..."

"-are there a lot of former tennis players here?" Choutarou finishes. 

"Ohtori-kun," someone exclaims and a blink of his eyes later Kikumaru is all but sitting in Choutarou's neck. That answers that question.

"Eiji!" Oishi reprimands, plucking at his friend's sleeve, "don't jump people like that! What if Ohtori-kun fell over?"

"Nya, he's too strong to fall over because of little me!" Kikumaru says brightly, but loosens his hold and drops lightly to the ground. 

"Ne, Ohtori, how's-" Kikumaru stops, eyes going wide, "Shishido! You came."

"Hi?" he offers tentatively.

From the looks on their faces he can tell that they're still looking for dog-like traces on him. Kikumaru even cranes his neck to look for a tail on his butt. Oh yeah, _way_ awkward. Atobe might've prevented him from making it into any form of media, but Seigaku was right next to them during the fireworks on Christmas, there's not a chance they could've missed the chaos caused by his transformation. 

Just as Kikumaru opens his mouth wide to launch into a barrage of questions, he gets interrupted by the wild flailing of... oh hell.

Of Kirihara Akaya. 

"Senpai!" he exclaims, split-stepping in his anxiety. He insists on calling Shishido senpai, even though he's got barely a year of teaching experience over Kirihara. 

"A-Akaya," he splutters as the arm-waving increases into concussion-inducing proportions. Seigaku's Golden Pair scatters.

"Senpai, I'm so so so so sorry!" he drops into a bow so low it's making Shishido acutely uncomfortable. "I didn't know, Shishido-senpai, honest! I didn't meanta! Forgive me!" He's drawing the attention in a court-wide radius around them. Kirihara bows again, blubbering. "If I knew it was you, senpai, I'd never would have agreed to getting you castrated. I swear, you gotta believe me!"

There are no words for this all-compassing humiliation. Shishido feels himself burn with it. "You're forgiven, Akaya, now stop it, _jeez_!" 

Whispers are exchanged on all sides. Castrated echoes all around, rippling in wide arcs through the crowd. Next to him Choutarou has a hand over his mouth to hide a grin. Shishido scowls at him.

"R-really?" Kirihara gives him wide-eyes.

"Yeah, really really," he hisses, anxious to go and hide underneath the punch-table or something. 

As with all things Kirihara-related, the worst is yet to come, "Really? Oh, thanks, senpai, thanks," but then his face scrunches up and he bows again, apologizing all nice and loud, "and I didn't mean it about you being gay--" At this point Choutarou actually bursts out in gales of laughter, the damn traitor. "--I really didn't! I know why you didn't want to make puppies with Kuri-chan, cause that's just nasty and all. So I'm reallyreallyr _eally_ sorry for calling you gay, I know you're.... not." 

He stops dead, eyes flicking back and forth between Shishido and Choutarou, taking in the bite-marks, their closeness, Shishido's prominent lack of denial at 'gay'. His jaw dangles as it sinks in.

Frowning, Shishido waits for the outrage. There goes his nice collegial friendship. 

But Kirihara just shrugs and mumbles something along the lines of, "S'okay, just like Yukimura-buchou and Sanada-fukubuchou, really..."

There's a loud, " _TARUNDORO!_ " from somewhere in the crowd next to them.

"Gotta go!" Kirihara shrieks and slips away in a stream of people surging past.

Former-Rikkai Sanada stomps past them and disappears after Kirihara. 

Red in the face, Shishido just stands there. So this is what social suicide must feel like, he notes distantly. Why is it always bad for him at Atobe's parties? Can't everything just go all nice and smooth for once? 

"Let's get some drinks," Choutarou says, taking his wrist and hauling him along through the crowd. 

They're swallowed by the sheer number of people, tennis players from their school days, all adults now. Atobe's female and ever-growing fan-club is present, too, despite his being married. Their thrilling laughter and squealing rises above the rest. Some of Atobe's business associates are present, too, but in a much smaller number and all are standing wearily at the edges, sipping their expensive drinks and scrunching their noses. 

Overhead enormous crystal chandeliers reflect the light back in rainbow-colored dapples. Everything is rosy-veined marble and velvet and silk, the smell of roses permeates everything and gold filigree covers every possible surface. It's too much, too expensive, over-the-top and utterly Atobe. And where is Atobe anyway? The rest of the old team, for that matter? The place is chock-full with former Yamabuki, Seigaku, Fudoumine, Rikkai and St. Rudolph tennis players, but none of _his_ old Hyoutei team. Other familiar once-Hyoutei students bob up here and there, but none of them have Jiroh's golden curls or Oshitari's kansaiben drawl.

Choutarou is tall enough to make the crowd part a bit in surprise and Shishido just has to make sure to stick close enough in his wake. They slip through more rooms filled with people, with music, with billiards (he swears he sees Seigaku's Fuji there). But no Atobe awing Tezuka with his beautiful voice, no shrill nagging of Mukahi, no Jiroh being a public hazard by sleeping on the floor.

But, at last, they find a table lining the whole side of a grand room, burnished dishes winking invitingly and a crystal punch-bowl big enough to bathe the two of them presented on a pedestal. Into which a tall man with black hair and glasses is pouring something from a nondescript bottle.

He puts a hand over Choutarou's and mutters, "Don't drink that," eyeing the concoction distrustfully. 

"Aa," Choutarou says, "I'll go look in another room for drinks then. Will you wait here, please, Ryou?"

"Hmm, sure," he agrees.

Slipping the bottle in a roomy pocket of his vest, Shishido swears he can hear the tall man say "ii data."

What a weirdo. 

Shaking his head a bit, he turns to the table and rubs his hands. His stomach rumbles in anticipation. After all that sex, he's ravenous. He doesn't know where to start, so he snags a plate and just walks along the length of the table, grabbing everything that looks edible. A lot consist of things he doesn't recognize, but there's also sushi and sandwiches so small they're barely a bite's worth and canapés and glorious slices of cake... isn't that..? Shishido's eyes glide further up the table and there, alright, is Marui Bunta, dressed in a chef's uniform, devouring a whole cake by himself, slice after slice gone in four or fives bites.

He passes on a bowl that reminds him too much of dog food, meaty chunks drifting in dark gravy, and contemplates lobster instead as he grumbles at Atobe's inability to serve anything _normal_. There's a silver plate with crackers on it that look too much like doggy treats and Shishido just _knows_ Atobe put them there to needle him. Stupid, pompous, ...

"So is it true?"

Shishido jumps and turns to the voice. 

Niou quirks an eyebrow at him and leers, "Have you really been a dog all year?"

He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug and nods once.

"Puri," Niou says. 

"Yeah, tell me about it," Shishido deliberately echoes. 

They start to grin at each other, but someone forcefully shoulders his way in-between them.

"Niou-kun," Yayguu says, "What are you doing?" He glowers at Shishido from behind flashing glasses. Over his shoulder Niou smirks, pleased at the show of jealously. Shishido rolls his eyes, nods his head in goodbye and continues heaping the plate, moving away.

He has no desire to be drawn into the middle a lovers' spat. Or mindfuckery for power, whatever.

Finally he gets to the end. The plate is heaped with food and he has to be careful not to let anything slip over the edges. Someone is shouting something amongst the lines of 'my sushi will make you BURNING!'. Shishido thinks he might've misheard, but eyes the piece he was about to pick up suspiciously. After that tall man with the bottle, he can't be too careful, maybe the sushi's been tampered with, too. So he makes to go, eyes trained on the plate, and bumps into someone.

"I'm so sorry!" he exclaims, wincing at the piece of toast sticking to the swell of a breast covered in a royal-blue dress. 

Grabbing a kerchief from the table he offers it and instantly freezes.

Naomi smiles at him as she takes it. "That's okay," she says, dabbing, "there's so many people here, it's impossible to move."

Shishido just stares, cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck, dribbling into his collar and hands shaking so bad more things vibrate over the edges of the plate. It's as though the world collapses under his feet, leaving him suspended mid-air, forever falling, even though he knows he's rooted to the spot in Atobe's hall. 

"Ne, it's really okay," Naomi assures, seeing his chalk-white complexion and bloodless lips. "Don't worry about it."

He has to go, has to move, before Choutarou returns and sees her, try to find him before he even enters the room. There is no way he can compete. Shishido knows he's not bad looking at all, but it just doesn't compare to Noami who screams sex standing there. All curves; her breasts, the sheer dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, dress clinging, _caressing,_ and her hair a silken tumble over her shoulders, her lips so full and just inviting to be kissed. It's even enough to affect him, if only a bit, so what will it do to Choutarou, who knows her naked body, has had his hands, his mouth on every possible inch of skin...

 _Move, Shishido, move_ , he screams at himself. Instead he remembers to breathe. 

Naomi is giving him a worried look. "Are you okay?" she asks, touching his wrist which is damp with cold sweat.

"Aa," he kicks himself mentally, struggling out of the stupor, "I'm fine. Sorry."

His throat bobs. The ring of bruises, from his dog's collar, almost seem to throb again, a reminder.

Her fingers curling more around his wrist, Naomi peers up at him. "Say, don't I know you from somewhere?" she asks, studying his eyes, his hair. "You look awfully familiar..."

"Uh-" he starts, but just then he can hear Choutarou's voice.

"Ryou? Ryou!" 

_Don't let him see..._

He resorts to calling 'Shishido-san' again for a moment, a habit that would probably still have popped up for years to come if it hadn't been for Naomi who is taking away that future. It's not _fair_. Pain blooms in his chest, making his heart stutter and falter some when Choutarou pushes a champagne flute in his hand and says, "Ryou! There you are, why didn't- oh."

Shishido closes his eyes and hangs his head. _Moron, why didn't you just move and leave. Weak, stupid, you deserve to be a damn dog for this._

"Choutarou?" Naomi says, her voice full of surprise.

"Naomi," he splutters. 

There is a heavy silence. Shishido's muscles twitch, he needs to disappear, and he pulls away. Choutarou grabs his biceps, holding him. "I've been looking all over for you, Ryou," he says. For some reason he's smiling a bit. How is it possible that all of a sudden they're so out of synch, when they were straining together, murmuring each other's name just two hours ago and yet now Choutarou is smiling when Shishido feels like crying. 

"Ryou?" Naomi says, drawing his attention. Her eyes go to his face again. Gazes lock deep as she looks at him, searching, boring. Her eyes go wide and her hands fly up over her mouth. " _Ryou?_ "

Well fucking hell. Naomi recognizes him. Even though she's never seen him as a man before, she still _knows_ him now.

"How- how- how-" she gapes. Shishido swallows. Choutarou smiles. " _How?_ Ryou, is that really you?" a hand flutters, fingers trembling, as if to touch his face, his hair, but she doesn't.

Clearing his throat, Shishido offers, "Woof?"

She gasps. 

Convinced that he isn't about to dash out of the room, Choutarou releases his arm and moves his hand to the small of his back instead. The palm of his hand is warm even through his shirt, spanning almost completely the crest of his hips. Relax, he seems to say. 

Shishido's eyes widen. 

Naomi's do, too, eyes flicking down to Choutarou's hand resting on his body and then up to the glaringly obvious mark Shishido has sucked and bitten into the skin just under Choutarou's ear. 

"Uh-" he goes again, but this time it's in perfect unison with Choutarou's 'uh'.

Naomi's eyes are so wide it must hurt. Her mouth hangs open. Her snack drops from her fingers.

Most importantly, even though Shishido begins to worry he might just die from blushing so hard, Choutarou doesn't remove his hand. 

"Uh, yeah," Shishido manages, grabbing for anything to say other than the blunt 'I'm fucking your ex-boyfriend and he's mine, nya-nya!' that is on the tip of his tongue. 

He's saved from having to blurt out anything potentially disastrous by the arrival of former-Seigaku's power player, Kawamura Takashi. 

Who, to Shishido ever-lasting shock, wraps an arm around Naomi's bare shoulders and says, "There you are, love, I wondered where you were!" He adds an anxious, "Is my sushi okay?"

"It's lovely, Taka," she compliments. 

There's no way all this will make sense without alcohol in his system, so he takes a sip from his glass. Just then Naomi says with a shrug, "I like them tall, strong and quiet," and adds to Shishido, with a wicked curve of her mouth, "just like you."

Shishido chokes and snorts champagne up his nose. Classy. 

***

Half an hour later Choutarou is still laughing.

"Stop it!" He snaps, digging his elbow into Choutarou's ribs. 

Tears in his eyes from sheer mirth, Choutarou manages between bouts of chuckles, "I'm sorry. It's just, you- you should've seen your face, Shishido-san, espe-"

Stuffing a canapé in Choutarou's mouth to stop him from relating the event yet again, more specifically the five minutes of hacking and coughing with champagne dribbling out of his nose, he mutters, "I didn't think it was funny at all."

Sobering, Choutarou looks at him, thoughtful, but apparently thinks better of saying something. They pass from one room into yet another long hallway, the music that comes from adjacent rooms spilling together into one echoing cacophony. A man with sleek dark hair passes them, mumbling to himself. A dark gaze flicks briefly at Shishido's face and he can hear him mutter, "-the man everybody says is a werewolf. I wonder if that's true, I don't really believe in werewolves, but Momoshiro says he saw it happen, so maybe it's true, but I don't think there was a full moon-"

And so on, until he's out of earshot. 

"Does everybody know?" he wonders rhetorically. 

Choutarou lifts a shoulder and answers anyway, "Atobe-senpai managed to persuade or even bribe everybody to keep them from going to the media with it. There's no real proof besides, since it happened so fast. But yeah, I guess everybody knows."

"Wonderful," Shishido grumbles. 

A hand brushes his, "Don't worry about it," Choutarou says, "Atobe-senpai is looking into getting your job back and how to deal with the official records concerning your disappearance."

He nods. That does make him feel better. Atobe can be a clown at times with all his pomp and flair, but he's _good_ , nevertheless. At anything. Not to mention his connections and his roots stretching _everywhere_ give him enough leverage to make it as of nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. 

Speaking of the devil, as they walk into the next room, pushing past a man with a purple flower sweater, a very flustered butler comes up to them. He's panting, out of breath and looks immensely relieved when they nod yes to his "Ohtori-san? Shishido-san?"

"Oh, thank god," the butler huffs and puffs, "My Master was expecting you three hours ago! He will not tolerate being made to wait any longer."

Shishido, talking right over Choutarou's polite splutter of an apology, says testily, "Really? And where the hell is Atobe, anyway? We've been looking all over for that asshole." 

The butler splutters some more at his rudeness and Choutarou gives him a pointed 'play nice with the other kids'-look. Shishido smirks. 

A waitress comes rushing towards them, heels clacking on the marble floor, "We've got an emergency! Someone has added something to the punch in the dining room, and now more than half our guest have, uhm, cramps. There's a two hour line at the toilets! What do we do?"

Cradling his champagne protectively to his chest, he and Choutarou exchange a look of profound relief. 

"Uhm, er," the butler seems torn between the impending hygienic disaster and Atobe's wrath considering the lateness of his two guests.

Shishido, feeling magnanimous, flaps a hand at him, "Just tell us where Atobe is, we'll find our way."

After imparting the directions to them as if they were stupid toddlers, he runs off, pot-belly waggling. Rolling his eyes at the spectacle, Shishido motions at Choutarou, "Let's go."

Besides Shishido nearly getting into a tussle with a tall man with a creepy leer as he shoulders through a knot of former Yamabuki players, they find the broad sweeping staircase leading to Atobe's private parlor without any incident. Deep red carpeting muffles their footsteps as they ascend and as they cross the landing into the western wing of the mansion only the deep throbbing bass of the music carries as far. 

"Should be around here," Shishido mutters to himself, eyeing silver numbers engraved on doorknobs and counting the rooms they pass. "Ah, there it is," he points to a ornate double door at the end of the hall.

A hand on his shoulder pulls him to a stop before he can walk up to it. 

"Choutarou?"

"Did you really believe I'd leave you?" he asks as he draws Shishido closer. Warm hands flutter over his ribs.

"Huh?" Yeah, his speech-capacity always seems to deteriorate when Choutarou gets so close.

Arms settle around him, holding him tight. Choutarou repeats into his hair, "The look on your face... just now, with Naomi. You really didn't think I'd-" he trails of, rubbing his cheek against the top of his head, undoubtedly making his impossible hair even worse.

Muttering against Choutarou's chest in a low voice, he answers, "Yeah, well. What did you expect? I turn around and suddenly I come face-to-face with your extremely sexy ex-girlfriend. How am I supposed to-" Shutting himself up, he scowls.

Backing him up against the wall, Choutarou kisses him, quick and searing. "I think your ten times as sexy as Naomi," he says in that sincere way of his.

Flushing, Shishido grumbles, "I thought I told you to leave the romantic stuff to Oshitari." 

"I mean it, though," Choutarou says simply and pries Shishido's face away from where he's hiding it against his body, pressing fingers under his jaw to tilt it up so he can kiss him again. 

Everything pales in comparison to this. Before he knows it the slow and gentle contact is just not enough, so he runs his tongue along Choutarou's mouth wet and warm, demanding to deepen the kiss. His fingers dance across the strip of warm skin he finds, teasing, before he splays his hands and curls them around the swell of Choutarou's behind. A gasp interrupts their kiss as Choutarou leans even further into him, shivering. Another gasp, from them both, as they press closer still, an electric stab of pleasure created by the friction. Choutarou is too damn tall for this, his erection almost a painful brand against Shishido's lower stomach, his own trapped against the thigh between his legs. 

A third gasp brings them up short. 

And then:

"UWAH!" Jiroh runs back into the room, doors swinging in his wake. He can be heard screaming, "I WIN! I WIN! I told you guys they'd do it before the year was out!" 

Shishido puts his hands over his face and groans. Choutarou tugs his shirt down, red in the face.

"Shishido! Ohtori!" Atobe hollers through the doors at them, "Ore-sama does not appreciate waiting! And how dare you commit obscenities in Ore-sama's sanctuary!"

Stomping into the room, glowering, Shishido jabs a finger at Mukahi who is predictably sprawled all over Yuushi, hand-feeding him. "Obscene my ass, I see nobody kicking them out! At least we do not do it in front of an audience!" 

"Shishido-san," Choutarou tries to placate him with a hand on his shoulder.

Mukahi sticks his tongue out, "That's just because you're a prude, Ryou." Smugly arranging Oshitari's arms around him, he smirks at Shishido's neck wringing-motions. 

"I can bide my time Gakuto," he growls, "Oshitari won't be around for ever to protect you."

Mukahi rolls his eyes, but pales when Oshitari remarks dryly, "What makes you think I'm protecting him? As long as you leave orifices, tongue and crotch intact, go ahead."

Putting down his piece of cracker with spread, Hiyoshi complains over Mukahi's indignant yelp of 'YUUSHI!', "Did you have to say that, Oshitari-san? Now I've lost my appetite."

"You're supposed to be romantic!" Mukahi adds in an even shriller tone. 

Shishido scrunches up his nose at Oshitari as he plunks down next to Jiroh, who latches onto his arm instantly. "Ne, ne, I'm so happy you didn't turn back in a dog, Ryou," he informs him happily, "although you made a really nice dog, so if you'd change back for a short while now and then it'd be okay."

Any other person would've gotten screamed at by him, but as it is Jiroh (and who can scream at him), Shishido just huffs, "Thanks ever so much."

Still pouting, back pointedly turned to Oshitari, Mukahi says snidely, "I liked you much better than a dog. Your face was more tolerable, then."

Choutarou easily grabs the back of his shirt as he tries to dive over the table to wring Mukahi's neck. "Just you wait, Gakuto," he snarls. 

Over the rapidly rising argument, Atobe roars, "Ohtori, Oshitari!" 

At Atobe's leveled glare at them, Oshitari rolls his eyes, grabs Mukahi's collar and proceeds with stuffing his tongue in the redhead's mouth. Choutarou just asks if Shishido wants some more champagne while he gags at the blatant show of wet and sloppy kissing, which could be labeled hard core porn even though they haven't even taken any clothes off yet. And since Hiyoshi is also rather green in the face, Choutarou re-fills his glass to the brim. 

Hiyoshi tosses it back in one go.

"Finally," Atobe huffs, "this kind of behavior is unacceptable in Ore-sama's vicinity. Try to behave for once." 

"He started it," Mukahi chirps, mouth slick with saliva and red hair mussed. 

Shishido snarls at him and splutters as Choutarou 'accidentally' knocks him over the head. "Sorry, Shishido-san," he says sweetly.

"If Ore-sama ends up with migraine because of your endless bickering, you'll both run laps until your legs fall off!" Atobe announces as Kabaji pours him more champagne.

Both Shishido and Mukahi yell in unison at him, "Not our buchou anymore!" And share a startled glance.

"Feel the love," Taki remarks dryly to Kabaji.

"Usu." 

Satisfied that Mukahi is too preoccupied to need any pummeling or hair-pulling soon, Shishido settles down with a sigh, leaning against Choutarou a bit. Jiroh is half in his lap, still going on about how nice a dog Shishido was and how awesome his tricks were. His lids start to droop lower, and lower until they drift shut. 

Just as Jiroh starts to snore, Atobe asks, "So, what did you think about Ore-sama's glorious party? Were you awed?"

While Choutarou assures him they were very awed, Shishido mutters smugly under his breath, "I think Ore-sama will be awed by how gloriously deep in shit he'll be before the night is over."

"Ryou!" Choutarou hisses.

"Aan?" 

"Nothing," Shishido smiles at Atobe. 

Atobe looks offended.

Loudly, Taki comments from the other side of the table, "That's one hell of a love-bite you made on Choutarou's neck, Shishido. What have you been doing to the poor boy?"

Of course, that is a sure fire-way to get Choutarou to blush, Shishido to frown and Mukahi to take his cue. 

"So," he drawls, balancing his elbows on the table and wagging his eyebrows suggestively. "Did you do it doggy-style?"

"KILL YOU DEAD!" Shishido howls, this time actually making it over the table before Choutarou can grab him. Jiroh flops onto the ground with a pouty 'heeey' as Shishido dislodges him.

"Oh shit!" Mukahi scrambles backward and runs off. 

Dodging and swerving, Shishido chases him around the room, his expression so murderous that Mukahi's mad giggling turns into whimpers of terror. Being the dash specialist and priding himself on his speed makes that eventually he can back Mukahi into a corner and pounce on him.

Admits shrieks of 'YUUSHI', 'HELP' and Shishido's vengeful cackling, Taki says happily, "How nice to have the whole family together again. Just like old times, ne?"

Atobe rubs his temples, "Ore-sama is going to need a painkiller before the night is over."

Leaning towards Choutarou a bit, Kabaji whispers out of the corner of his mouth, "So, _did_ you?"

This time it was Choutarou's turn to snort champagne up his nose.

_-fin-_


End file.
